


A Time for Everything

by Darth_Sensei



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-20
Updated: 2016-10-20
Packaged: 2018-08-23 13:36:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8329855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darth_Sensei/pseuds/Darth_Sensei
Summary: Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger are happily married when the unthinkable happens. Hermione is killed during a Death Eater attack and Draco will do anything to bring her back, even if that means plunging himself perilously through time to find her. Due to unfortunate circumstances, his spell goes awry and he lands straight in the middle of fall term of his sixth year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Hermione is alive and well, but she and her friends hate him and Voldemort wants him now more than ever. The complexities and complications of time travel are explored as he attempts to renew her affections and save the wizarding world once and for all-- if not just to avoid the fate of his and Hermione's love.





	1. Just Dropping In

Prologue: Just Dropping In

It was the second Saturday of the term and cool autumn sunlight was pouring through the bay windows of the Hogwarts library. Ginny was staring longingly out of the window down into the courtyard where several students had gathered for a game of enchanted hackey sack. Hermione looked up from her book and watched Ginny guiltily. She had spent hours the previous evening convincing Ginny that Saturday mornings at Hogwarts were actually perfect for studying. Her methods of persuasion had been brutal and unrelenting—they involved the perusal of several of Ginny’s most recent assignments, which were covered in red ink and stamped with low marks. After only five minutes, Ron and Harry had left them to play wizard’s chess. Even they were unable to bear the embarrassment, take part in it, or even enjoy it.  


“Alright, Hermione,” Ginny had finally sighed upon the display of a particularly sore grade. “But you know that wasn’t my fault. Ron—”  


“Yes, yes,” Hermione interrupted. “Ronald gave you the wrong answers on purpose. Does that matter? Did Flitwick accept your excuses?” Ginny shook her head. Hermione took this as permission to continue. 

“Exams are never as far away as you think.”  


“It’s only the second week of term, Hermione!” Ginny said in exasperation, unable to curb her irritation.  


“Only? That means we have less than three months until mid-term evaluations. Really, Ginny, you’re going to be sitting for your OWLs this year and my NEWTs are just around the corner. We must prepare ourselves, and not just for exams,” Hermione said darkly. “I think that we should spend the morning in the library tomorrow while we have a little extra time.”  


“But tomorrow is a Hogsmeade visit,” Ginny said. “I had plans to spend the day with—”  


“There will be plenty of Hogsmeade visits. I think if we focus on your charms homework, we can catch you up, but we should start first thing in the morning.”  


“First thing?” Ginny asked, suddenly ready to argue again. “First thing being around noon, right?”  


Hermione laughed without humor. “I’ll wake you up at eight sharp,” she said as she collected her papers and placed them neatly in her satchel. When she had finished, she stared pointedly at Ginny, who had yet to move a muscle. She seemed in shock. “We should probably get to bed now, early day and all.”  


Ginny looked around the common room and felt a pang of disappointment. Everyone else was chatting and playing games. It couldn’t have been later than seven thirty. Weekends in the Gryffindor common room were made for late night chats and games of exploding snaps. The hearth offered warmth, the large squishy armchairs offered comfort and she was loathe to give either of those things up. Ginny was usually lucky to make it to bed by eleven, but she had the distinct feeling that wouldn’t be the case tonight.  


“Bollocks,” she muttered to herself and headed off to bed.  


Looking back on it, Ginny wished she had fought a little harder for the noon study session, but she knew Hermione and there was no arguing with her when her mind was made up.  


“You look tired,” Hermione observed with a sideways glance, breaking the silence as she scribbled a notation onto her already packed length of parchment. “I hope you weren’t up too late.”  
Ginny shrugged. “It’s hard to sleep when everyone else is up having fun without you,” she replied. “Besides, my inner clock is set to a more… night owlish sort of schedule.”  


Hermione did feel bad that she had pushed Ginny so hard, but she refused to let it bother her too much. It really was the best thing for them both. Studying would only help them when assessment time rolled around. Ginny would never say so, but she really did need help.  


It was almost one in the afternoon when they finished up their assignments and began heading back to the common room. Ginny was in a much better mood now that she didn’t have to worry about her homework being done, and Hermione was glad to have the company. She usually studied alone.  


As they walked, a comfortable silence fell over them that neither felt particularly obligated to break. It was during these moments of silence that Hermione and Ginny didn’t feel the need to argue—either playfully or not so playfully.  


They turned the corner and the fat lady was in view when Hermione decided to ask, “Who did you say you were going to spend the day with in Hogsmeade?”  


“I didn’t get a chance to tell you, but I was planning to go to the Quidditch shop with Dean.”  


“Dean? Thomas?” Hermione said archly. Ginny paused and Hermione followed suit.  


“Yes, Dean Thomas. What other Deans are there? I need a new set of tail clippers and he says he can help me find the ones that work best with my broom, since we’re going to be teammates and all now…” Ginny’s voice trailed off and she glanced at Hermione out of the corner of her eyes. “Why do you say it like that?”  


“Oh, no reason! Really, he’s a very nice person.”  


“Her—”  


“Reall—”  


They both began the sentence at once and looked at one another in surprise. Bursting out laughing, they clutched their books to their chests as they continued walking.  


Suddenly there was a loud bang and a large shapeless mass fell from the ceiling, eliciting screams from both Hermione and Ginny. It hit the floor with a thump and a grunt of pain and Hermione realized, in a moment of sheer horror, that it was a person that had just appeared out of thin air. Too frightened to run away, Ginny and Hermione merely stared as the person began to move, groaning as they lifted their head. 

Hermione gasped. It was Draco Malfoy—looking a great deal more grave than usual.  


Beating Hermione to the point, Ginny dropped her books and pulled out her wand. Hermione admired the swiftness in which Ginny pulled her body into the primary dueling stance. “What in the hell are you playing at, Malfoy?”  


But his eyes were fixed on Hermione. His expression was one of disbelief, fear, and… something else Hermione couldn’t, or refused to interpret. “Hermione?” He whispered, the word rolling off his tongue like he had said it twelve times a day for the last six years.  


“Draco Malfoy, the astute observer as always,” Ginny snarled.  


“Who else would it be?” Hermione asked. Looking up at the ceiling and then back down at him, Hermione added, “where in Merlin’s name did you come from?”  


Draco pulled himself up, using whatever he could for support. He looked pale, thin and his clothes were filthy and wrinkled. “I can’t believe it worked…”  


Hermione digested his words and slowly reached for her own wand. “How did you get here, Malfoy?” She asked, her voice dangerously low. “It’s impossible to apparate on school grounds…”  


“Appa… I didn’t apparate,” he said slowly. He seemed so focused on what she was saying that he couldn’t understand her. Draco took a step towards Hermione, a severe limp announcing itself as he stumbled against the wall trying to gain his feet.  


“I think you’re delirious, Malfoy. Your head must have broken your fall,” she said in a warning tone.  


“What she’s saying is that you should make your way to the infirmary before I curse you,” Ginny stated.  


“Curse me… I don’t care,” he murmured, eyes never breaking contact with Hermione’s. She believed him. He didn’t care.  


Draco suddenly reached out. Hermione hadn’t realized he was moving towards her and by the time she did, he was close enough that he took hold of an unruly strand of brown hair and moved it gently away from her face. Hermione was frozen—unable to speak or move. “You’re okay—”  


“This is getting too weird for me,” Ginny interjected, looking to her companion with true concern. “I really think we need to go. Let a teacher sort all this out.” Turning back to Draco, she said, “Slytherin prefect or not, you picked the wrong witches. You’ll answer for this.”  


Hermione nodded, snapping back to her senses. She stepped away, her cheeks burning in embarrassment and anger as she roughly tucked the loose strand behind her ear. They both put their wands away, Ginny picked up her books, and they practically ran in the opposite direction.  


“Hermione…” Draco whispered after her, the longing he felt almost intense enough to tear him open.


	2. Draco's Feat of Love

Chapter One: Draco’s Feat of Love

Draco tapped his pen nervously against the dull and damaged surface of his personal desk. Glancing to his right, he read the clock on the wall with an intense feeling of dread. 5:47. Dumbledore was late— seventeen minutes late. Dumbledore was never late. Standing swiftly, Draco gathered his things without care—tipping over picture frames and a half-full mug of coffee.  


“You heading out Malfoy?” A coworker asked and Draco nodded, not bothering to recall his name. “You don’t look so good.”  


“I don’t feel so good. Tell Maria I had to leave early, would you?” Draco asked, surprised at how normal his voice sounded. It was almost alien. On the inside, Draco was screaming. “You idiot!” He shouted at himself once he was in the safety of his own car. The station wagon’s engine revved to life and Draco went from zero to fifty in less than ten seconds. The snow was falling so quickly and in such volume that Draco could barely see the road, let alone signs. “You knew, you idiot! You shouldn’t have left her!” His foot pressed the gas pedal all the way to the floor and the engine groaned painfully.  


It was 6:02 when Draco pulled onto Primrose Lane—the street that he and Hermione had called home for the last year. At the very end of the street to the right stood a two story, buttercup yellow house with navy blue trim and dark gray curtains. Draco drove over the curb and onto their pristinely groomed lawn—barely coming to a full stop before he threw himself out into the snow that now covered the ground. He bolted up the porch stairs and into the house, in such a hurry he fell twice, scraping his knees and bruising a few ribs. The second he saw that the front door was open, he knew he was too late. But he had to be sure.  


As he entered the house, he halted, listening, his heart thudding to a stop in his chest the moment full realization hit. If Hermione was still alive, he would know it—he would feel it.  


The light in the living room had been broken, but the fan was still going. Draco moved slowly, praying to whatever God was listening that the person who had just destroyed his life was still there—the rage he felt was boiling over, suppressing his grief. That would come later, he knew.  


Turning into the kitchen, he saw the back door was thrown open and snow was still gently and silently drifting into a pile against the door. It was then that Draco knew that whoever had attacked their home was long gone... As he stepped further into the darkened room, he saw a motionless shadow on the floor.  


“Hermione,” he breathed. The shadow was still. Until that moment, his hope had remained; maybe she had been on a walk when they came. Perhaps she had struggled and won. But the shape on the floor was a shape he knew better than anyone in the world.  


He dropped to his knees and crawled to her. Even in the darkness he could see the blood and the bruises that had been left on her olive skin. She had fought so hard, but she was no match for someone with a wand and hers was hidden in a box on their mantle. They must have caught her by surprise…  


Draco wanted nothing more than to look away, but he could look nowhere else. Hermione’s chestnut hair was splayed in all directions, matted with blood in some places. His fingertips brushed her cheek. The skin was cold and smooth. He traced his hand down her neck, over her still chest to her barely protruding stomach. No movement. No life. Draco felt the first of many tears spill as he looked at her. Her eyes were frozen open in terror, glazed over in a way that left no doubt as to how she had been killed. Avada Kadavra…

. . . 

It was a cold December afternoon and even though the sun was glaring down at the large assembly, the temperature remained far below the yearly average.  


Draco felt nothing but numbing cold as he watched the dark mahogany coffin lower slowly into the ground. He was aware of music playing, but he couldn’t tell what song it was, nor did he really care. Everyone kept their distance from the pale, blonde, former-death eater, and for good reason. He had sent more than one person to the hospital since the night his beloved wife had been murdered.  


A warm tear streaked his face and Draco quickly swiped it away. After the things he had seen, Draco found crying almost difficult… But this pain was so different than anything he had ever felt before. It was like a wildfire—out of control and it was consuming him.  


The coffin finally settled at the bottom of the grave and Draco suddenly felt the permanence of it. He would never see her face again, or feel the warmth of her body next to his… He would never get to hold their child. He choked back a sob at the thought of the innocent, unborn life that had been taken. His baby… Draco’s knees buckled and several people rushed to help him. He waved them away with angry shouts and all but two heeded his request.  


“Up you go, Draco,” came the familiar voice of the boy who lived. Draco opened his eyes to see an outstretched hand waiting patiently in front of his face. He took hold and Harry Potter pulled him to his feet.  


“Do you want a chair?” Asked his red-headed companion and Draco shook his head.  


“I’m fine, thanks,” he muttered hoarsely.  


“It was a beautiful service… Hermione would have loved it.” The youngest Weasley’s voice was so gentle and calming that Draco could only nod and look away. Ginny Weasley was four months pregnant with her and Harry’s third child and Draco couldn’t bear to look at her. If she noticed, Ginny was too much the polite witch to reproach him. Seconds later, the silence was broken by the shouts of one of the new Weasley twins.  


“Mommy, mommy, mommy!” A little girl with red hair pulled back into pigtails came running at full speed and wrapped her arms around Ginny’s legs. “There are ghosts here!”  


“Of course there are, Lily, we’re in a cemetery.” The girl’s eyes opened wide.  


“Can they hurt me?” She asked and Ginny laughed. “Arthur said—”  


“Don’t you listen to a word your brother says. He’s only trying to frighten you.” Draco saw Ginny place her hand lightly on top of the young girl’s head in an attempt to soothe her. It seemed to work, because the girl backed away and began looking around. “Mommy and daddy are in the middle of talking to other grownups, Lily, so why don’t you run off and find your brother? You two can play hide and seek.” Lily nodded and sprinted off.  


Ginny cleared her throat and gave Harry a rough nudge with her elbow when she thought Draco wasn’t looking. Harry shrugged and she sighed loudly. “Harry and I have been talking, Draco, and we don’t think it’s the best idea for you to stay at home by yourself right now…”  


“I’ll be fine,” Draco snapped. “I’m not going anywhere.”  


“I understand,” Harry said, giving him a firm pat on the shoulder. Harry avoided Ginny’s narrowed eyes as he said, “Just don’t forget to bother us every once in a while. Ginny will worry.”  


“Sure,” Draco replied emptily.  


“We should probably head out now,” Ginny said regretfully. “Arthur and Lily need their nap and I need mine.” Without thinking, she rested her hand meaningfully on her barely oversized belly.  


Draco felt a pang of unbearable pain, the likes of which he had never experienced. He didn’t respond and eventually, the two drifted away into the crowd of dispersing people. Draco heard many polite goodbyes and offers to walk with him back to their—now his—beaten up station wagon, but he couldn’t find the energy to acknowledge them let alone reply. He wasn’t trying to be rude, but he had little attention to spare from the ten by four foot grave that held the only real family he had ever had.  


It didn’t take long before Draco was alone at the graveside. It was almost a relief. He let out the breath he had been holding and allowed the ache he felt to overtake him. He slowly lowered himself onto his knees by the edge of the grave. He then spread his body out and lay flat on his stomach, his arm to draping over the edge loosely. His fingers were just inches from the surface of her coffin. He vaguely wished he could reach just a little further.  


“It’s been such a long day, love,” he said, the right side of his face pressed against the loose dirt and grass. “It would have been so much easier had you been here with me.” When there was no reply, Draco began to shake. “Please, Hermione… Talk to me. Let me hear your voice.” Met with only silence, Draco could no longer hold back his sobs. The next twenty minutes blurred together and by the time he couldn’t cry anymore, Draco’s chest was so sore it was hard to breathe.  


Suddenly Draco experienced what felt like cold skin brushing lightly against his fingertips. He immediately withdrew his arm from the grave and scrambled to his knees. He peered over the edge in anticipation—fully ready to see Hermione’s shade… something… but the grave was still empty except for her coffin.  


“Where are you?” He asked.  


“She’s moved on, Draco.” Draco scrambled to his feet, turning, and drew his wand, the words of a thousand different spells on the tip of his tongue. When he saw the intruder, he felt relief, but didn’t lower his wand.  


“No,” Draco spat.  


“Yes,” the shade repeated. “She is gone.”  


“She wouldn’t,” Draco said, taking deep breaths, trying to contain his anger. “She couldn’t.” He felt tears brim his eyes again and it made him angrier than ever. “What about me?”  


“You should feel happiness for her—rejoice that she is not held here against her will as something less than human.”  


“Like you, Dumbledore?”  


“Yes, Draco, like me.”  


“It’s your fault she’s dead,” Draco snarled.  


“You may lay the blame at my feet if it will give you comfort, but I know you are no fool,” Dumbledore’s shade murmured.  


“If you had done what you were supposed to, they would not have found her and she would still be here,” Draco replied coldly.  


“You cannot blame me for dying, Draco.”  


Draco wanted to scream. Dumbledore was like God to the wizarding community… How could God fail? How could God die? “You blame you,” Draco said through gritted teeth. “That’s why you’re still here.” Draco closed his eyes tightly and his wand fell to his side. “I should have been there.”  


“Then we would have buried two great wizards today,” Dumbledore’s shade said calmly.  


“Better to be dead and buried than… this,” Draco said. “Everything that I had in this world is in that grave.”  


“You are very young, Draco Malfoy,” Dumbledore lamented.  


“All I need is a second chance,” Draco whimpered.  


“I’m afraid there are no second chances.”  


“There has to be something I can do—a reanimation elixir, a necromancer’s spell?”  


Dumbledore shook his head slowly, a new look of concern on his old, wizened face. “Those are dark magics, Mr. Malfoy, and the results may be far from what you imagine.”  


“I need to go home,” Draco said suddenly. He cast one more glance down into the depths of her grave and murmured a last farewell and a promise that he would be back.  


As he was walking away, Draco heard Dumbledore’s quiet pleading that he not do anything foolish.  


“Bugger off, old man,” Draco growled and Dumbledore’s voice faded away.  


Draco threw himself into the station wagon and put the key into the ignition. He slammed the car in reverse and looked over his shoulder. For a split second, he thought he saw Hermione in the passenger’s seat, just as she had looked a hundred times since they had purchased the damn beast.  


“What am I doing?” He asked himself incredulously. “I’m a wizard.” He no longer had to keep up this muggle façade. Hermione was dead. They were discovered. Lord Voldemort knew exactly where to find him and no one, alive or dead, could protect him anymore. Draco got out of the car, pulled out his wand and blew the ugly hulking pile of metal forty feet into the air. It landed with a crash and burst into flames. Draco felt a sliver of satisfaction as he watched it burn.  


Draco didn’t know how long he stood there as the flames grew higher and higher, but when the sirens started, he apparated back to Primrose Lane, number 1307. He stared up at the unremarkable house that held all of his best memories. He hated this house. It was ordinary and small—everything that their romance had never been. “I’ll do you just like the car,” he promised. “When I’m done with you.”  


. . .

Draco was so absorbed in reading that he didn’t hear the front door. Only when Harry and Ron were standing in front of him did he look up.  


“What happened here?” Harry asked as he looked around the living room that Hermione had kept spotless the entire time she had lived here. Every surface was covered in beer cans, liquor bottles, and books, which were all in various states of destruction. Some books were just thrown open haphazardly, some were ripped and covered in spilled beer, and then there were the unlucky books, which had obviously been destroyed by magic.  


“I wish you had rang,” Draco said distantly. “I would have picked up a bit.”  


Ron and Harry looked at one another. “A bit?” Ron asked. “You’re going to need to burn the whole thing down and start over.”  


“Yes, I’ve realized that,” was Draco’s serious reply and Ron gaped.  


“Are you okay?” Harry asked. Finally, Draco set the book he was reading aside. He ran a frustrated hand through his hair before pointing his wand at the book and shouting a spell at it. The book caught fire immediately and within a few seconds turned into a small pile of gray ash on the sofa.  


“I’ve burnt it…” Draco said quietly as he swept the ash away to reveal a small burn hole on the cushion. “She loves this sofa. She’s going to be cross with me…”  


It was then that Ron and Harry began looking closer at the books that were scattered around the room. Every book was open to a section on communicating with the dead, raising the dead, or reanimating the dead.  


“Draco, she’s gone. Doing this—this kind of magic won’t bring Hermione back… she wouldn’t want this,” Ron stuttered.  


Draco’s gray eyes narrowed. “We never talked about dying,” he said. “We were too young and healthy to talk about it.”  


“We’ve all thought about it,” Harry said suddenly. “Bringing someone we care about back to life after we lose them. But you can’t. It’s not natural. You know as well as anyone that it won’t be Hermione who claws her way out of the ground when you summon her…”  


“There’s no other way to have her back,” Draco said stubbornly.  


“Are you even listening? You won’t have her back. She will be the living dead—your zombie,” Harry snapped. “She will take commands, she will kill or curse whoever you want her to, but she won’t make you pancakes on Sundays or warm your bed at night. She is dead, Draco. Dead. Gone. Her soul will never come back. Do you really want an empty corpse parading around her in her clothes, in her jewelry, in her house?” Draco didn’t answer. “If you do this, you will be sullying every real memory that you have of her. She would never forgive you for sacrificing your own soul for an illusion.”  


“Go.” It was one word, but it communicated so much. Harry nodded and turned to leave.  


“If you bring Hermione back from the dead, I will kill you,” he said quietly, then left, followed closely by his red headed companion.  


Draco sank to the floor and leaned his head back against the couch. Before he could stop himself, he was slipping into a restless drunken sleep.

Sunlight was streaming through the bedroom window and Draco’s eyes slowly opened. “Who opened the damn blinds,” he growled as he threw his blankets aside and stood.  


“Talking to yourself again?” Draco froze, his eyes wide with fear and disbelief. He turned slowly and found himself staring straight into his dead wife’s chocolate brown eyes. But she didn’t look dead. In fact, Hermione was very much the perfect witch he had come to love. Her hair was tousled and messy—exactly the way it always was after they made love. She pulled the sheets all the way up to her chin almost shyly as he stared at her. “What?” She asked nervously.  


Draco didn’t know what to do or what to say. He was obviously dreaming or having a delusional fantasy. Seeing her smile and the shape of her body under the blankets though, it didn’t matter if it was real or not. He walked back to the bed and slid underneath the covers. Her warm arms wrapped around him and he felt her soft lips against his cheek. He sighed and allowed himself to fall into this dream.  


“Iter per vitam…” She whispered in his ear, her voice as soft as a summer breeze.  


“What did you say?” He asked.  


“Iter per vitam…” She repeated.  


“Why are you saying that?”  


“It’s the answer,” she replied simply. “It’s the answer you’ve been looking for.”  


Draco turned to look at her, to ask her what she meant, but she was gone. The spot next to him was cold. The sheets were pulled over where Hermione had been. He moved the covers aside and let out a yelp. Next to him lay the perfectly set bones of a human body.  


“Iter per vitam,” whispered the skull that had taken her head’s place on the pillow next to his. As the words were spoken, her bones turned to dust.  


“ITER PER VITAM!” Draco woke with a start, the words rolling off his tongue with perfect ease.  


He scrambled to his feet, stumbling towards the door as his cramped legs woke up. He ran out into the street where it was once again snowing heavily. He fell to his knees and began to laugh hysterically. Of course. Why hadn’t he thought of it before? Iter per vitam… To travel backwards through life. Time travel without a time turner. He wouldn’t need to bring Hermione back to life if she never died… It all seemed so simple now—so clear.  


But how… His excitement died as quickly as it had come on. He didn’t know the potion that accompanied the spell. Only three wizards in the entire world knew it and he would never get the ingredients from Voldemort or Bellatrix Lestrange. The third was Tristan Roberts, a clever wizard who specialized in very rare and dangerous magics, but he would be just as impossible to reach considering no one had seen him in more than four years.  


Finding him would take time, but all of the sudden Draco had all the time in the world.

The next few weeks were spent in ways Draco would rather not recall and hoped he would soon be able to forget. His face was as unwelcome to followers of Voldemort as Hermione’s had ever been. He was a blood traitor. He had joined, lived, and even impregnated a witch whose parents were nothing more than dentists—muggle doctors, for teeth! He heard it all and he bore it because any information was better than none. And when the information he sought ran dry, his wand destroyed their minds, forever silencing their mouths. There could be no risk of Voldemort, or one of his inner circle discovering what Draco meant to do. Mostly, memory charms worked. Other, more powerful witches and wizards required time and a greater degree of effort.  


Two weeks into his search, Draco found the breakthrough he had been hoping for. Following a new lead, he found himself in the house of an ancient wizarding family. It wasn’t the first time he had been here, but it was by far the least pleasant. Before him cowered Daphne Greengrass, a year mate and fellow Slytherin from Hogwarts. Her youth had fled early it seemed, along with any sense she may have once had. About halfway into questioning her, an unfortunate event occurred and his hopes of finding what he needed seemed dashed as Astoria Greengrass, Daphne’s younger sister, walked into the dining parlor. Her eyes took in the scene before her with a calmness Draco envied. Her eyes went from Draco to her sister and then back to him, where they stayed.  


Astoria was pale as alabaster with a tight knot of dark hair at the top of her head. Upon seeing him, she had immediately drawn her wand, but her confidence did not fool him. Draco knew her to be the victim of a family blood curse. She was weak—vulnerable.  


“Release my sister at once,” she said, her quiet voice carrying across the open space with surprising clarity. “And leave. It would not be wise for you to be found here.”  


Draco allowed Daphne to struggle free and join her sister at the other end of the room, but he didn’t lower his wand. “Leave? You’re going to let me go?”  


Astoria nodded and her sister let out a howl of disbelief. “Why on earth would you let him go? The dark lord desires his head above all others. What favor we would have with him if we could deliver it.” Where Astoria’s voice was commanding and soft, Daphne’s was shrill and hissing. The two sisters, who looked so alike, could not have been more different in attitude.  


“Would not our dark lord wonder why his most vile defector has chosen this house?” Astoria asked her sister. “I think only of you, dear sister. He-who-must-not-be-named would wonder if, after all this time, Daphne Greengrass still harbored hope of becoming a Malfoy—even if it meant betraying her Lord.”  


“What? You can’t possibly be serious in suggesting Lord Voldemort would question my loyalties,” the older sister scoffed. “I, Daphne Greengrass of the twenty eight sacred families, who killed Dumbledore and found the traitor’s hiding hole? I, being the very one to release Gregory Goyle on the little mudblood, a traitor? I think you are—”  


Draco didn’t say a word, only pointed his wand in the direction of Daphne Greengrass. There was a flash of silver light and Daphne seemed stunned. She fell back against the table with a loud, heavy thud and was silent and senseless; for how long she would remain so, no one could tell. His wand immediately fixed itself on the sister. His fury was untamable and had she not, with a gentle flick of her wand disarmed him, Astoria would have been daft, just like her sister.  


“You won’t need this,” Astoria said, her voice rushed and quiet. “Come with me. You must hurry.”  


The ocean still rushing in his ears, Draco found himself following Astoria up the staircase into what looked like a library.  


“I know who it is you seek and I have found him for you,” she said solemnly as she closed the door behind them.  


“Obviously I would like to believe you, but I have serious concerns, the first of which is the theft of my wand.” Without hesitation, she tossed his wand back to him and waited.  


“And? The other concerns?”  


“The fact that you are Astoria Greengrass of the twenty eight sacred families,” he said flatly.  


“I can’t very well change my ancestry. You know that, or do you think I choose to remain in this state?” she asked, referring bitterly to her frail and weakened figure which must have, at its prime, been quite beautiful. “But I can tell you why, despite my family name, I want to help you.”  


“Okay,” Draco prompted doubtfully.  


“I am dying.” Her voice cracked in sadness and she cleared her throat as she wiped a tear from her cheek. “They say I have less than two years left in this miserable body. For my mother and father, this would seem like a reasonable amount of time to form an alliance through marriage and bear an heir. I, however, am not convinced that my final hours on this earth should be spent pandering to Lord Voldemort, who is my intended husband—or anyone else for that matter. I have never been like the others. Daphne believes, my mother and father believe, and maybe once upon a time, I believed too.” Astoria paused, looking down, her dark eyes filled with remorse. “When Daphne told me what she had done… the killing of the muggle girl you—”  


“She is not a muggle,” Draco interjected. He was trying very hard not to let his emotions overwhelm him.  


“Nevertheless, when she told me of the murder, my heart broke for you, Draco,” she said in barely more than a whisper. “If you love your mudblood nearly as much as I love mine, your loss is unimaginable.” Draco’s eyes widened in surprise and realization. “Crying in his arms, I thought of what awaited me of that same misery and I could not bear it. It’s why I sent you that message in your dream. I knew that I could help you regain—”  


Draco stepped swiftly forward, wrapped both hands around Astoria’s throat, and squeezed until his knuckles turned white. “How dare you enter my dreams and use my memories of her for your own purposes.” Astoria fought, clawing at his hands, but there was no chance of her breaking his hold. She was weak, riddled with magical disease and she had dropped her wand in surprise. Was this how Hermione had spent her last moments alive? Locked in a battle she had no chance of winning… When her lids started to close, Draco released her and stepped away, panting. “Tell me what I need to know.”  


Astoria coughed violently and rubbed her neck, which was turning an ugly shade of red. Her eyes were full of fire. “You are really very stupid.”  


“So I’ve been told. Tell me what I need to know or I will finish what I started.”  


“You don’t frighten me,” Astoria said with a laugh. Her voice was still raspy, but the laughter had its effect. “You know you need the information I have. Once you have it, you can kill me, but not before.”  


“Why would I kill you if you are agreeing to give me what I desire?” He asked.  


“Because I ask it of you as a condition of my disclosure.”  


“Ask?”  


“Demand,” she corrected, lifting her chin and looking him straight in the eyes.  


“I don’t want to kill you,” he said matter-of-factly. “I’ve done enough killing.”  


“One more life won’t make a difference—let alone a half-life like mine… maybe in a world where Hermione Malfoy was still alive, I could find the courage to do what you did, and spend the rest of my short life hidden away and happy. But not in this one. In this one there is only death, and blood, and him.”  


“Tell me what I need to know,” Draco demanded impatiently.  


“Promise me.”  


They stood in complete silence, eyes locked, for several minutes as each refused to surrender. Draco could think of nothing except how disappointed Hermione would be if he killed this girl… But it was this thought that steeled his nerves. If he did this, Hermione would be alive—capable of disappointment. “I promise…” He whispered.  


Astoria’s shoulders sagged. “Thank you,” she sighed in relief. Her eyes closed and a placid smile formed on her lips. Her reaction to his promise seemed to melt whatever misgivings he possessed about what he needed to do. She took three steps to the nearest table and tore a piece of paper from a notebook. “He’s here. Go at night. He won’t expect anyone then.” As Draco reached out for the scrap, she pulled him into a tight hug. “If this works, and you get the chance, please find me… and just tell me I’m braver than I think I am?”  


Draco nodded, returning her embrace stiffly. “I will. I promise.” 

As he left the Greengrass Manor, Draco took Daphne’s memories from the past six weeks. No one would know what happened or why Astoria Greengrass was dead, but Draco had a feeling Voldemort would know he was responsible.  


Sitting patiently in his living room, Draco waited. He passed the time with one of their many volumes of arithmancy texts propped open on his lap. He saw the words, but failed to comprehend them. He was too eager. But time passed and the light outside faded, street lamps flickered on. Looking at the crumpled and yellowed piece of paper, he put the address firmly in his mind and with a loud pop disappeared.  


He landed roughly, gravel digging into his palms and knees. He groaned and brushed himself off before standing. Looking around, Draco almost smiled. Tristan Roberts had always been a fan of luxury. Where others asked for power or fame, Tristan had asked for things of great value. Money, houses, luxurious amenities. And now, at the Dark Lord’s behest, Roberts was living in a shack that, once upon a time, had been a barn.  


He walked to the door and blew it off. He didn’t bother announcing himself. When Draco finally found him, Tristan was huddled in a corner with his wand. Upon seeing Draco, he had whimpered most pathetically and offered the other wizard his wand without so much as a struggle.  


Once, a very long time ago, Draco had liked Tristan, but that was neither here nor there. All Draco saw when he looked at Tristan was a Death Eater and Death Eaters were responsible for the death of the woman he loved and the child they had made together.  


“I have questions that you’re going to answer,” Draco said and Roberts groaned.  


“You know I can’t go giving away the Dark Lord’s secrets, Malfoy,” he whimpered. “You know that.”  


“We’ll see.” He pulled out his wand and, with the tenderness of a lover, whispered, “Crucio.”

“We both know that you’re going to give me that spell, Roberts. How long do you think you’ll last before you lose your mind, you filthy git?” Draco paused, giving his freshly bound captive a chance to tell him what he wanted to hear. Roberts had tried to run, so Draco had been forced to tie him to a very uncomfortable looking chair. The ropes were tight enough that Draco could see Roberts’ hands turning blue. “You’re sure you’re willing to die to protect that spell?” The man didn’t open his mouth, but had the decency to look away. “Crucio,” Draco said apathetically and the man began writhing in pain, crying out like a dying animal. A minute later, Draco paused. “No change of heart yet?”  


“Fuck. You.” the man spat through gritted teeth.  


Draco felt his blood boil, but he knew somewhere in the back of his mind that it was critical he keep himself in check. “Give me the spell.”  


“I would never help you save that mudblood whore.” Draco kicked him swiftly in the leg and a sickening crack broke the sudden silence of the room. Roberts cried out again, his voice breaking with exhaustion. “My leg,” he gasped in pain. “You broke my leg,” he groaned. Draco wondered distantly how long it would take for Roberts to go into shock from the pain.  


“That was a clean break—very easy to fix. I could mend it with a simple spell if you decided to cooperate,” Draco said, bending down to look into the man’s wide eyes. “Otherwise, I’m going to keep breaking bones and the longer we sit here, the longer they have to set improperly… You’ll never walk again.”  


The man squeezed his eyes shut and muttered a prayer. Draco punched him in the face with enough force to knock the chair onto its side. The man whimpered pathetically as his broken leg dangled awkwardly over the edge of the seat.  


“Who do you pray to? Is there a god for people like you?” Draco shouted. “You’re an imbecile, Roberts,” Draco spat, his lip curling in disgust. “No wonder the Dark Lord left you here to rot.”  


“The w-work I do for Him is c-c-critical to His plans. My c-conditions are a trifle when compared to the r-r-rewards that will follow upon the completion of my m-m-mission.” His voice was monotone, as if he was reciting something from memory.  


“You’ll never be anything more to Voldemort than a means to an end. He will use you and he will kill you,” Draco spat in response.  


“I remember a time not so long ago that you too were a tool of the Dark Lord, Malfoy. How soon you forget,” Roberts sneered Draco’s last name as if to emphasize Draco’s dark family history.  


“I’m bored of this. How much longer do you think I will waste my time here, Roberts?” Draco asked, his voice deadly calm. “You’re not the only person who knows the spell.”  


“Bellatrix would die before she told you,” Roberts laughed hysterically. His laugh turned into a cry when Draco nudged his dangling broken leg roughly with his foot.  


“You know she’s not the only one,” Draco smiled a cold smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’ll kill every death eater I encounter until I find the one that can be bought—and you know there will be one,” Draco lied. It was then that Roberts began to sob. “Are you going to tell me now, Roberts?” Roberts nodded and Draco lifted the chair right side up with little effort. Roberts cried out at the quick movement of his leg. “As soon as you tell me, I’ll mend it and walk out of here. It’ll be like I never came to visit.”  


Roberts laughed loudly, but there was little more than ironic humor in his voice. “You might as well kill me,” Roberts said. His hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat. He was breathing heavily trying not to faint. “He’ll know you were here and He’ll know that I told you the spell. The only reason I’m talking at this point is because we used to be friends.”  


“And you’re hoping that you can run and hide faster than He can find you,” Draco snapped, smacking Roberts’ cheek lightly. “Let’s not be foolish.” Roberts looked up at him and said the words Draco had been waiting six hours to hear.  


As promised, Draco mended Roberts’ leg and left. Almost like he had never been there. Draco reveled in Roberts’ screams until the moment that he disapparated. After mending him, he had tied Roberts up again and charmed the ropes. Roberts would be like a trussed up turkey for the Dark Lord. Roberts would remember everything and tell Voldemort, but Draco didn’t care. It would be too late and all he could think about was when he would wake up with Hermione next to him, her brown eyes full of life and adoration.

This method of time travel was particularly tricky and took more than just a spell. In fact, it was one of six other known spells that required an accompanying potion. The potion itself wasn’t very complicated, but the ingredients were difficult to find and the order and execution of each step was so specific that Draco’s heart was in his throat the whole time. If he didn’t get it just right, there were a million different things that could go wrong. Draco could end up disfigured, lost in time, or even dead. That couldn’t happen. It had to be perfect.  


After the potion was completed, Draco started a timer. It would need to simmer for six days before it was ready for the final ingredient. He spent the first four days cleaning. He hadn’t realized what a mess he had made of their house. Burned books and exploded beer cans were everywhere he looked. He repaired the couch, straightened the picture frames, and spent hours super gluing Hermione’s porcelain figurines that had been broken in the struggle that took her life. On the fifth day, Ron, Ginny, and Harry showed up fully prepared to host an intervention.  


Upon arrival Ginny had looked at her brother and her husband in disbelief and shouted, “Good Merlin, two couch pillows are out of place and you two make it sound like he’s gone off the deep end!”  
Harry and Ron had looked just as surprised as Ginny when they saw how tidy everything was. They apologized for bringing Ginny to straighten him out, told him how happy they were that he had decided to move on from his… unhealthy obsession. He had nodded and smiled in all the right places and his words must have seemed believable and sincere because within an hour of arriving, the trio had left again.  


He sank into the couch cushions once he was sure that they were gone and allowed himself to fall asleep.  


He hadn’t closed his eyes for more than an hour before he heard a noise upstairs that made him bolt upright. He listened closely and heard the distinct sounds of whispers and moving around. He ran into the kitchen to grab his baseball bat before realizing he wasn’t a muggle anymore and that his assailants, in all likelihood, were not muggles either. He ran back and grabbed his wand off the coffee table and crouched low.  


The potion is upstairs, he remembered with a pang and his quiet steps on tip toes turned into a thundering sprint. He collided with someone on the stairs and threw them over the railing onto the coffee table below. They grunted and moaned in pain as they attempted to curse him. He dodged and rounded the second landing where he found himself face to face with none other than Gregory Goyle, his school chum and ex colleague among the death eaters. Goyle had grown fat, his large bulky muscles going soft due to lack of exercise and excessive food.  


“Come to finish it, have you?” Draco asked. “How was it? Killing a pregnant woman, I mean.” Before Goyle could open his mouth in response, Draco pointed his wand directly in his face and yelled, “Crucio!” Goyle fell to his knees, crying out in pain, begging for Draco to stop. But Draco was enjoying it. His body was humming with magic, more alive in this moment of vengeance than it had been since… since… Draco paused as he remembered what was important.  


He left Goyle crying on the stairs and bolted into the bathroom attached to his and Hermione’s bedroom. Draco looked at the potion, which was at a slight boil and cursed. It was a light purplish blue color. He knew from what Roberts had said that it would be ready only when it had gone completely purple. Six more hours and it would be fully ready, but he didn’t have six more hours. He grabbed the bottle on the counter and poured the contents of the cauldron inside. It didn’t look nearly as blue now, Draco convinced himself as he pulled his cloak on and hid the bottle in a deep pocket. He waved his wand and with a pop was gone again.  


He landed with a light thud on the street outside. He smirked as he muttered the words that would send his house—his personal hell and the enemies within it—straight into oblivion. When it was done, he didn’t stick around to watch it burn. He didn’t need to. POP and Draco disappeared for the last time.  


This time the landing wasn’t rough at all. He landed ankle deep in soft, heavenly sand. His feet sank in and he fell back, refusing to move. He knew he was safe here—as safe as he could be anymore, he reminded himself bitterly. He sat up suddenly and looked out over the water. This was the island that he and Hermione had picked. This was the exact spot that they would have lived out the next few years in safe solitude with their little girl. Andromeda would have been her name.  


Draco pulled the bottle out of his pocket and closed his eyes, pretending Hermione was next to him, holding his hand. He needed her more now than he had ever needed anyone. He drank the overly sweet draught and let it settle before pulling out his wand and pointing it at himself. He said the words quietly with an almost graceful twirl of his wand and for a few seconds, Draco Malfoy was no more.


	3. Of Winning and Losing

Chapter 3: Of Winning and Losing

“Please, I must speak with Headmaster Dumbledore right away,” Draco demanded—growing increasingly frustrated at the unimpressive effect his sixteen year old body seemed to have on adults.  


“I doubt that anything you have to say to Professor Dumbledore is grave enough to require an immediate audience, Mr. Malfoy,” was McGonagall’s terse reply. “He is busy, as am I,” she added pointedly.  


“Please, Minerva,” Draco begged, grabbing her hands and looking straight into her cold gray eyes with his own. “It’s urgent. I have cast a serious and dangerous spell and I think it’s gone awry.”  


“That is Professor McGonagall,” She stated tersely, tearing her hands from his. She looked furious and confused at the same time. “You just wait here.”  


McGonagall walked down the main passage and Draco found himself exhausted and alone in the Transfiguration Wing of Hogwarts. He had caught McGonagall mid cup of tea as she sat marking papers. Until the moment she called him Mr. Malfoy, Draco had not considered the full repercussions of his spell. While not exactly a child, he wasn’t a man either. The superiority in her looks and tone was enough to make him feel extremely small and he didn’t like it.  


Draco limped to the corner of the transfiguration classroom and eyed his reflection in awed disgust. He was a few inches shorter than he would ultimately become. His scar, a thin line that was the result of his final escape from Voldemort’s clutches, was gone. The skin of his body was smooth and unmarred. His left arm, once disfigured by a grotesque skull and snake was now devoid of anything except for blonde downy hair.  


Finally satisfied with his self-examination, he searched for a place to rest. As he slid into a chair, careful not to jar his leg, his mind began racing. It had worked. Hermione was alive. He could have jumped for joy just then had he not been very certain his leg was sprained if not broken, not to mention the fact that he had gone several years too far—9 and a half to be exact. Damn Goyle!  


It seemed like hours before McGonagall returned, but when she did, he was relieved to see that she was going to take him to Dumbledore after all. “The Headmaster will see you. Come with me,” she said shortly as she led him through corridor after corridor. The pain in his leg was excruciating and every few minutes he would pause for just a second to regain his composure. His leg could wait. If McGonagall noticed his pain, she said nothing—even when she was forced to stop so he could catch up. If it wasn’t for his future intimate knowledge of McGonagall’s character, he would have thought her entirely devoid of basic human compassion.  


As they walked, he recognized a few corridors here or there, but everything else in the castle was a complete and utter loss to him. If McGonagall hadn’t been there guiding him, Draco would have been lost by now. Almost ten years had passed since he had last set foot in Hogwarts and not much less than that since he had thought of it.  


They paused in front of a fierce looking statue of a gargoyle. Draco was about to ask why they were stopping, but McGonagall, as if anticipating his questions, quickly muttered, “canary cream.” The Gargoyle spiraled upwards and a small enclosure appeared. McGonagall stepped inside first and motioned for Draco to follow.  


Draco stepped out of the Gargoyle, a fascinated look on his face. He had heard about the headmaster’s office at Hogwarts, but he had never seen it for himself. A giant reddish orange bird, a phoenix he noted with slight awe, was standing in a cage off in the corner. To an untrained wizard, it seemed to be asleep, but Draco could see that it watched his every move. Draco got the eerie feeling that the bird saw right through him—knew he wasn’t what he seemed.  


“The Headmaster will be here shortly. I have assignments to grade and lessons to plan. Don’t touch anything while you wait,” McGonagall snapped suddenly and before Draco could respond, she swept from the room, her emerald robes trailing behind her, and the gargoyle’s descending staircase disappeared.  


Panting in pain, Draco walked to Dumbledore’s desk, where he sat with a grunt. He let out a sigh of relief at the lessening pain in his leg. He waited there for a few minutes before he grew restless, rose from his seat, and limped to the window. To his intense pleasure, Dumbledore’s office had a clear and wonderful view of the Quidditch pitch. Even now, first years were at their flying lessons, zooming through the air, barely holding onto their brooms—but they were smiling just the way he had when his father first taught him to fly. His chest clenched and he looked away. To his surprise, Dumbledore had entered and was feeding his phoenix candy from his palm.  


“Fawkes loves his jelly beans,” the old man said seriously. “I save the particularly grotesque flavors for him. He seems to enjoy them most.”  


It was absurd. Now that Draco stood face to face with the living breathing Dumbledore of his childhood, he didn’t know what to say or where he would even begin. He suddenly felt very young and afraid.  


“Professor McGonagall told me you had done something dangerous,” he said slowly and Draco met his eyes for the first time since Dumbledore’s entrance. “If only she knew the truth of how dangerous.”  


“Sir?” Draco asked. There was no way that Dumbledore could know… Not just from looking at him. After all, Draco knew he was in his sixteen year old body. It had been a point of utmost frustration when trying to find anyone to take him seriously.  


“What have you done, Draco?” The old man asked and Draco didn’t like the reproach in his voice. It bordered on judgment and he would be damned if anyone was going to judge him for what he had accomplished.  


“Only what I had to,” he said shortly and all of the sudden, Draco was telling Dumbledore everything that had happened—everything that was yet to happen.  


“A very sad story indeed,” the Headmaster said gravely as he stroked his silver beard. “I must think on this very hard and decide what is to be done. In the mean time, you must tell no one of this.”  


“Not even Hermione?” Draco gulped.  


“Especially Miss Granger.” Draco physically blanched at the man’s finality. It brooked no argument. “You have created a very serious chronological problem here, Mr. Malfoy. To some extent, damage has already been done. The best we can do is prevent more from being done, reverse what we can, and attempt to fix what we cannot.”  


Draco wanted to scream at Dumbledore just then. Tell him he was never going back to that void without Hermione. They would have to kill him first. But there was no point. There was no way for Dumbledore to reverse the spell. He couldn’t even send Draco back into his own time. So, Draco bit his tongue and nodded solemnly, agreeing to all of Dumbledore’s terms despite the knowledge that he would not heed them.  


Dumbledore paused for a time as he stared off at something that was invisible to Draco. “The spell you have used is a very ancient one—very complicated. It requires great skill and precision. Few are desperate or brave enough to attempt it and even fewer succeed at it,” he said quietly. “I am sure you know why.” Draco nodded. “This spell has the potential to change a great deal about the world we currently inhabit. It differs from the time turners that we use here at Hogwarts in that way. Do what you will with a time turner and yet you find yourself trapped in a sequence of events outside of your control. Cast this spell and the world is open to you—you can change one thing or you can change everything. That is why it is a dark magic. That is why good wizards do not use this spell and why even the darkest ones fear it.” He let his words sink in and Draco realized what the old man was saying. He was saying: I’ll be watching you. “You’ll be staying in the Slytherin dorms, of course. Your prefectorial duties will remain unchanged and you will act as though you are a sixteen year old wizard, which means no advanced spells. It is very important that your presence here remain unremarkable, am I clear?” Draco nodded for what seemed like the fiftieth time within the last hour. “It is almost evening. I daresay you should head straight to the Slytherin dormitories so you are not missed.”  


“I think I had best head for the hospital wing first, Albus,” Draco said and for the first time, Dumbledore looked at Draco’s leg. His pants were torn and there was blood. A piece of white bone was clearly visible.  


“As you will, then,” Dumbledore said quietly, seemingly surprised at how long Draco had been able to stand his leg being in that state. “Ask the first student you see outside of my office for assistance to Madam Pomfrey.” Draco turned to leave. “And Mr. Malfoy,” he called and Draco paused. “We may have a very different relationship in the future, but I am your headmaster and you are my student. I think it would be best if you called me Professor Dumbledore.”  


“Yes, sir,” Draco said as he limped towards the gargoyle. It opened and he stepped through.

Draco’s luck in the past was apparently no better than his luck in the future had been, for when he stepped outside of Dumbledore’s office, the first person—or group of people, rather—he stumbled upon was Harry Potter and his best friends Ronald and Ginny Weasley and Hermione Granger.  


He froze the instant he saw her and Hermione looked away, turning red in embarrassment at the memory of the way his eyes had seemed to drink her in. “Her—Granger,” Draco said, remembering Dumbledore’s demands.  


Harry let out a growl as he moved between them and Draco frowned. “What is it you want, Malfoy?”  


“To speak with… Granger.” It seemed weird and irksome to have to act so aloof and call her by her surname when he knew her favorite flower, what songs she sang in the shower, and every intimate detail of her body. Not yet, you don’t, he had to remind himself. She still hates you… That was a harder pill to swallow than he could have imagined. He cleared his throat and said, “Dumbledore told me to ask for her assistance to the hospital wing.” It was only a partial lie, but it was enough—enough to cause a momentary chaos anyways.  


“She’s not going anywhere with you, creep,” Ron snarled.  


Draco managed his sincerest Slytherin smirk and rounded his eyes on Hermione. “Headmaster’s orders. Go ask him yourself if you like. I can wait.” She bit her lip in that adorable way she did when she was caught between a rock and a hard place.  


“I’ll meet you all back at the common room,” she said. “We came to see Dumbledore and he has obviously already spoken to Malfoy. I’m not going to waste any more time on this.” Harry nodded, but Ron seemed the most opposed to her going with him.  


“Take Ginny with you at least,” he spat.  


“It will be past curfew. She’ll lose house points,” Hermione stated logically. “Honestly, I can handle myself.” Her tone was peevish and Draco couldn’t keep himself from smiling, which the Gryffindors interpreted as something mischievous. Ron’s face turned red and Harry looked ready to argue, but Ginny grabbed them both by their cloaks and dragged them away mumbling about stupid Slytherins and stupid boys.  


“Whatever is wrong with you, it serves you right and I hope it hurts—terribly.” And those were the last words she spoke to him the entire way to the hospital wing. Draco didn’t mind. Her words kept playing through his mind: I hope it hurts—terribly. If only she knew how much it hurt. Just being in close proximity and not being able to touch her was enough to cause an ache so deep he could hardly stand it. Forget what it was like every time she brushed her hair out of her face, wafting the light floral scent of her shampoo in his direction. He was dying, he was sure, and it had nothing to do with his leg.  


“We’re here,” she snapped briskly, crossing her arms over her chest.  


“So we are,” he agreed. “Wait here? I should only be a minute or two.” Hermione’s eyes opened wide in indignation.  


“You didn’t say I had to wait for you too,” Hermione growled.  


“How else will I be able to get down the staircases into the dungeons?” He asked.  


“You can drag yourself down there by your teeth for all I care, Malfoy.” Even as she said the words, she leaned against the wall and looked up at the ceiling. Draco walked in and Madam Pomfrey was on him in an instant.  


“What happened? Oh dear, that’s quite nasty. Does it hurt? Of course it does, dear,” she mooned but all he could think about was whether or not the 16 year old version of Hermione was still standing outside. 

“Here you go. This is for the pain, this for the mending. Now let me see…” Draco cursed as she poked and prodded him with her wand. Finally, she muttered a mending spell, poured her vile concoction down his throat and sent him on his way.  


To his surprise and disappointment, Hermione wasn’t waiting for him when he finally left. He hadn’t really expected any less, he supposed. Yes, you did… He hated himself for feeling bothered by it. He remembered just as well as she did what an ass he had been—still was, in her eyes.  


This was going to be harder than he thought. Draco made his way, slowly but surely, down staircase after staircase and corridor after corridor. He didn’t know how long he had been walking before he finally stumbled upon the entrance to the Slytherin common room, but he knew it must be late. The entire castle was dead silent and no students were hurrying around anymore. Draco was about to utter the password to get inside when he realized he didn’t know it. With a howl of frustration, he leaned his back against the cold, rough wall and slid onto his haunches. He would wait for someone to come looking for him, he decided. He pulled his knees up to his chest and rested his head. His eyes closed, against his better judgment, and as he waited, his consciousness slipped away.  


“What the—” Draco woke as a shoe nudged his sleeping legs out from under his head. He scrambled to his feet, his platinum hair falling into his face. “What do you think you’re doing, Malfoy?” Growled their seventh year prefect, Lucian Bole.  


“I forgot the password, so I decided to wait here,” he replied, not happy at all about the crowd of Slytherins that was now pouring out into the hallway to watch the spectacle Bole had begun. It was obviously morning, which meant he had been out in the corridor all night. He was cold and his bones ached.  


“It’s been on the notice board for two whole days and you forgot?” Bole asked.  


“As I said,” Draco replied.  


“It’s dogbane. Write it down or something so you don’t forget.”  


It was hard for Draco to contain himself. Intellectually, he realized that Bole was actually older, but from the perspective of his 26 year old mind, it was hard to see him as anything but a petulant child.  


“Thank you,” he said through gritted teeth.  


“Go get changed and make yourself presentable. Classes start in twenty minutes. I guess you’ll have to skip breakfast.” Bole shoved Draco aside and swept off down the corridor muttering about prefects forgetting passwords and looking as snide and arrogant as Draco had ever remembered him being.  


“What a miserable git,” Draco muttered and there were sniggers from the rest of the Slytherins. “Bugger off, you lot,” he snapped and the first and second years bolted. The older students dispersed more slowly and with much more trepidation. Not even students of his own year dared to cross him. After all, Draco was a prefect too.  


“Dogbane,” Draco said and the wall slid aside to reveal the short corridor to the Slytherin common room. To his relief, his leg pain had been reduced to a small ache deep within the healing bones. It would take a few days for the potion to complete its work, but the change in his level of discomfort was already monumental.  


The sixth year Slytherin dormitories were spacious and grand, but very cold. The stone walls kept no heat and any bit of heat that did manage to survive in the dungeon level rooms was absorbed by the lake, which was directly above a portion of the dorms. Draco shuddered as he walked to his four-poster. He knew it was his because it was flanked on one side by Crabbe’s massive pile of dirty clothes and by the other, Goyle’s candy wrappers and cookie crumbs. It was just like old times—except not. Crabbe and Goyle might be the same, but Draco couldn’t have been more different.  


Meeting up with Goyle was an uncomfortable thought considering that Draco was certain that Goyle had been the one that performed the killing curse on Hermione and their unborn child. Add to that the fact that Draco returned the favor by killing him not even twenty four hours before and you had the recipe for a very awkward reunion. Draco rummaged through his neatly organized things to find his schedule, fresh clothes, and a cloak that wasn’t covered in blood and dust.  


He changed quickly and managed to stuff his mouth with chocolate frogs at the same time. Draco did not miss the hunger that came along with being a 16 year old going through a growth spurt. As he skimmed his schedule, his chest filled with dread. Draco had several classes he happened to know Crabbe and Goyle were in. Draco couldn’t for the life of him remember why he had signed up for such remedial and simple courses. His skills were far more advanced than those of his friends. He would have to speak to Snape about changing things around a little. Not only would that give him a reason to spend less time with Crabbe and especially Goyle, but it would also allow him a distraction from the one thing that he knew would plague his mind every minute of every day.  


As he sat at the edge of his bed, Draco wondered if Hermione was eating breakfast with her friends. He wondered if she was happy…  


. . . 

Hermione looked at her companions and let out a sigh of contentment. They were all talking about what they were going to do in Hogsmeade the weekend after next. Harry needed a new set of oiling cloths for his broom, Ronald wanted some prank candy Fred and George had sold to Zonko’s, and Ginny had heard there were some new enchanted scarves at Gladrags Wizard’s Wear that changed color depending on the weather and time of day. Hermione herself needed some new quills from Scrivenshaft’s Quills, as Ron and Harry had managed to destroy most of her set during a particularly fierce game of Wizard’s Chess. Hermione wanted to know when Harry’s set had learned to breathe fire, but it was a moot point. Ron and Harry were incorrigible—they would do what they wanted, against the rules or not. This was especially disappointing as Ronald was now a prefect, but her pleas for discretion fell on deaf ears.  


Taking a final bite of toast, Hermione gathered her books and said farewell to her friends. She had advanced arithmancy, which none of them had the desire, nor the grades to get into. It required no less than an outstanding score on the fifth year OWLs. The class itself enrolled only six students: two Gryffindors (Hermione and a seventh year named Meryl Early), three Ravenclaws, and one particularly clever second year Hufflepuff that had been placed by Professor Vector personally.  


So far, they hadn’t done much in the way of actually practicing arithmancy. From what Hermione could tell, they would spend their first term studying the theory, philosophy, and history of arithmancy. What came after, she was genuinely excited about.  


Hermione sat in her normal seat near the front and was happy to see her partner’s seat empty. This gave her an opportunity to pull out her sixth year transfiguration text book and begin next week’s assignment. It was pretty much a sure bet that if her nose was in a book, no one would bother her. The Hufflepuff that insisted on seating himself right next to her was very talkative and Hermione felt as though she had no time or patience for trivial chatter. It was becoming more and more apparent that her attention needed to be very securely focused on learning. Her ability to perform magic both quickly and flawlessly was going to be the only thing that could protect her friends, and just as importantly, her parents.  


Voldemort was getting bolder with his attacks and more than one muggle had been murdered since his return had been outed last school year. Muggles weren’t his only targets, however. To Hermione’s horror, over the summer she had learned of several muggle born students being attacked while back home. Houses were attacked with dark magic in broad daylight. The Death Eaters were brutal and had no qualms leaving a trail of death and misery in their wake. All of this had solidified Hermione’s desire for her parents to leave the country and she had spent the last four months figuring out exactly how to do it without frightening them half to death.  


Professor Vector arrived and Voldemort was forced from her thoughts as the woman immediately plunged into the day’s lesson. Hermione looked to her right and was surprised to see that Gerald Micken, her Hufflepuff partner, was still not present.  


“Today, we are going to discuss number symbology and where we derive a number’s meaning from,” Vector announced. “You’ll want to take very good notes this morning. This is guaranteed to be on your midterms.”  


As she scribbled frantically, Hermione became comfortably lost in their symbolic dissection of the number four.  


Vaguely listening about how the number four: “resonates with the vibrations and energies of practicality, organization and exactitude, service, patience, devotion…” Her mind wandered for a moment to a pair of cold grey eyes that belonged to a Slytherin that had been particularly bothersome as of late.  


Hermione pretended not to notice, but he watched her all the time. In classes their houses shared, she could feel his eyes boring into the back of her head. At breakfast and dinner, she had been exasperated to realize that he could always be found sitting at the end of the Slytherin table that most closely corresponded to her own seat.  


She had no idea what she had done to deserve his attention, but it was starting to cost her sleep. In her deepest, most secret thoughts, Hermione feared that Malfoy was planning something. His father was a well-known Death Eater and Hermione was a very well known mudblood.  


She would awaken some nights drenched in sweat. It was always the same nightmare. Her parents were dead—murdered. And the last thing she saw before being killed herself was a pair of cold grey eyes…  


“Miss Granger, would you please tell the class who discovered the magical properties of the number seven in relation to health. Mr. Cross seems to have forgotten.”  


“It was Bridget Wenlock in the 13th century, Professor,” Hermione stated without hesitation.  


“And how did she come about this discovery?”  


“Sheer luck,” Hermione said and there were chuckles around the room.  


“Humorous,” Vector stated with a smile, “and not at all wrong.”  


The rest of the class was thought-consuming and Hermione was glad she didn’t have a second to spare for wayward thoughts. If Malfoy had something planned, it was nothing that Hermione and her friends couldn’t deal with when the time came.

As she packed up her things, Hermione saw Professor Vector motioning her to come to the front when she was done.  


“I thought I should be the one to tell you that Micken won’t be joining us for advanced arithmancy anymore,” she said matter-of-factly.  


“Alright,” Hermione said, absorbing the information with little surprise. Micken was very clever, but easily reduced to a puddle of panic whenever quizzes or exams were near. His dropping out of one of the hardest courses offered at Hogwarts nothing less than what she had expected.  


“Group work will need to be done with Early and her partner, but other than that, I see no reason why you can’t work alone.” Hermione nodded gratefully and ran off to her next class—care of magical creatures with Hagrid, Harry, and Ron, thankfully.  


It ended up being a long day and Hermione was exhausted when they finally trudged their way up to Gryffindor tower. The only positive thing Hermione could look back on was that there had been minimal encounters with the Slytherins. Tomorrow, there would be no such luck. Double potions in the afternoon followed by transfiguration with Ravenclaw. Hermione fell into bed and closed her eyes, praying for dreamless sleep.  
. . . 

There were fire engines and ambulances parked all down Primrose Lane. Light danced into every alley and crevice except one across the street where stood the astral shadow of Bellatrix Lestrange. She was watching—waiting for all the muggles to put out the fire and leave, and when they did, she walked from between two houses and became her full corporeal self. Her dark hair spilled over her shoulders in unkempt ringlets. Her clothes were dirty and disheveled but did wonders to accentuate her figure. Bellatrix was tall with a womanly shape. In her small hand, she gripped her wand so tightly that her knuckles turned white.  


There was no doubt in her mind that this was the work of the traitor Draco Malfoy. She had met few wizards who could cause this kind of destruction and walk away. She scowled as she approached. She could smell burning flesh. Goyle and Knock were obviously dead. But where had Draco gone?  


She pulled up her sleeves and muttered a few guttural words under her breath. She was suddenly met with the unwilling shade of Gregory Goyle.  


“Where is Malfoy?” She asked coldly.  


“What happened? I was… gone and now I’m here… again.”  


“Where is Malfoy?” She repeated, growing impatient.  


“Malfoy…” Goyle said slowly, scratching his transparent head. “Malfoy… He disapparated. I heard it.” He squinted as he thought even harder. “I went to the window and he was there,” he pointed. “That’s when… everything exploded.”  


Bellatrix waved her wand and Goyle screamed in agony as his shade rippled and faded away in an acrid smelling fog.  


She walked to the exact spot that Goyle had pointed at and closed her eyes. She focused her thoughts on the residual magic and forced her body to relax. With a loud POP, she followed in Draco’s magical wake. In less than a second, Bellatrix found herself standing in the sun, her back to the ocean. She looked around and sighed. That was the end of the trail. Draco had to be here.  


Walking slowly inland, Bellatrix kicked off her sand-filled shoes and left them behind. Before her stood an immense jungle.  


“I will find you, Draco Malfoy,” she promised as she disappeared into the trees.


End file.
